A Fork in the Road
by geekmama
Summary: Victorian Sherlock's comfortable life is thoroughly overset after his injured landlady hires a young companion, one Miss Molly Hooper.
1. Stickler

**_~ Chapter 1: Stickler ~_**

* * *

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, returning to London after two onerous days in the wilds of Lincolnshire, whence he and Watson had been summoned to investigate the possible murder of Lady Berenice Hobart (evidence as yet inconclusive), found himself registering shock and, subsequently, a mounting displeasure at the state in which he discovered that holy of holies, his Laboratory. His wishes had been ignored. Explicit instructions had been set aside during his absence. It was more than he could - or _would_ \- tolerate.

Archie, setting down the case containing the samples collected from the Hobart residence (and from the deceased herself), eyed his employer warily and muttered, "Told her you wouldn't like it."

"You were quite correct," Sherlock said in icy accents. He hesitated. _Those samples must be analysed as soon as possible. However…_ He turned to Archie. "Kindly inform Miss Hooper that I wish to speak to her in the library immediately."

"Yes sir, right away," the boy said, and scurried off.

After another swift perusal of the desecration, Sherlock made his way to the library, entered, and began to pace. The act, which in Holmes' opinion bordered on the criminal, had been perpetrated by one who had been retained on the strict understanding that she was, first, to care for and be a companion to the injured Mrs. Hudson (whose broken arm and sprained ankle were proving an extreme inconvenience not only to herself, but to all parties connected with the elderly landlady), and second, to coordinate the day-to-day activities associated with the maintenance of the Baker Street residence, always keeping in mind the distinctive, varying, and often exacting needs of the inhabitants. Miss Molly Hooper, a bland but, hitherto, blameless presence, had now failed the second of these requirements in a most definitive manner.

She must be taken to task.

Holmes became aware of a sense of anticipatory satisfaction at the prospect, yet he could not bring himself to feel any sort of compunction at the realization. His anger was entirely justified, of course, but beyond that, he had found Miss Hooper a most irksome distraction right from the beginning of their association. The latter point, he had to admit, was somewhat baffling. She was a little dab of a thing, quiet and efficient, compliant to the point of diffidence - though once or twice she'd given him reason to believe that she was less in awe of him than he'd at first supposed. A momentary flash in the large brown eyes had indicated that she was not entirely without spirit; an imperfectly suppressed smile seemed to betray the fact that she did indeed have a sense of humor. In general, however, her demeanor was submissive, even nervous. She did not often bring herself to meet his gaze, and there was ever a hectic flush on her cheeks when he was in the room. She rarely spoke to him, and when she did, she often exhibited a slight stammer.

One would have presumed such an insignificant creature could be easily dismissed from conscious thought in favor of the many more important matters that occupied one day to day. Yet that had not proven to be the case.

That she had been considered for the post at all was due to Sherlock's colleague, Dr. John Watson. Watson had come to know the girl years ago, when he'd boarded with the Hooper family during his days as a medical student. Miss Hooper had made a very favorable impression, even as youthful as she must have been at that time, hardly more than a child. After completing his studies, Watson had kept in touch with the family, and only six months ago had attended the patriarch's funeral - Dr. Arthur Hooper had died after a long illness, and his daughter was, naturally, still in deep mourning. She was, however, also deep in debt, her father having made a number of well-intentioned but very unwise investments in his final years. Miss Hooper's mother had been prostrated when it was revealed how things had been left and had abandoned London to take up residence in Bath with her older daughter, her (reputedly) overbearing son-in-law, and their four children, none of which were older than six years of age. One would have thought even a debtor's prison would have been preferable, and certainly Miss Hooper had declined their invitation to add her mite to the chaos. She had, instead, finished out her current term at the London School of Medicine for Women, then began to seek gainful employment. Against Watson's advice, she had been about to accept a position as governess for the family of some factory owner in Leeds, of all places, when Mrs. Hudson became incapacitated due to a fall down the front steps of 221B. Watson begged Miss Hooper to interview for the temporary post, and Mrs. Hudson had taken an immediate liking to the girl. Sherlock had had little say in the matter, though he'd reminded them that it was entirely inappropriate for a young, single woman to take the position of housekeeper in what was essentially a bachelor establishment and, on a related note, Miss Hooper was almost wholly without experience in the domestic arts. However, since Mrs. Hudson would be paying Miss Hooper's salary, Sherlock's words had fallen on deaf ears.

And _this_ was the result.

"Sir? You w-wanted to see me?"

Sherlock turned to glare at the figure in the doorway, slim and straight as a blade in her plain black gown. A vivid blush stained her cheeks, as usual, and she appeared to know precisely why she had been summoned: her great brown eyes held a look expressive of both determination and trepidation, though the latter threatened to overpower the former.

Sherlock spoke in crisp, uncompromising accents. "Miss Hooper, my laboratory has been vandalized during my absence, and since you were in charge of the household during that time I can only assume it was with your consent, if not your deliberate doing. Am I not correct?"

"It… it _was_ my doing, Mr. Holmes, but let me-"

"And did I not give you detailed direction regarding the cleaning of my laboratory when you first took up your temporary position with us? After being retained _quite against my wishes_ , as I recall."

"Yes sir, but-"

" _But nothing, Miss Hooper!_ " Her heightened colour was draining away in the face of his anger, and he was suddenly aware that he was experiencing a slight twinge of remorse. His ire increased, along with his resolve. "Your stay with us may very well be far more temporary than originally planned. But perhaps I should lay the blame for this outrage at Dr. Watson's door, since your presence here was based on his glowing recommendation."

"Oh, no, sir! Please… I just thought… the _dust_ -"

"The dust has a _purpose_ , as does everything in my lab. Or _had_ a purpose. Your injudicious use of cleaning products-"

"Soap and water!"

" _As I say_ , your injudicious use of cleaning products has, at one stroke, destroyed the work of _months!_ "

"It hasn't!"

"It _has!_ I specifically instructed you not to clean the floors in the lab, and what do I find on my return? It's spotless! Free of dust or any other detritus. Important research in the composition of house dust has been thrown out the door _along with your damnable bucket of soap and water!_ "

"But it _hasn't!_ " she insisted. Then, before he could correct her yet again, she said, firmly with just a hint of desperation, "Come with me!" turned, and hurried out the door.

" _Miss Hooper!_ " he nearly roared, but she paid no heed, walking swiftly away in the direction of the room in question. Since it would be highly undignified to continue shouting, he had no choice but to follow her, hissing exasperated curses under his breath as he strode after her. She was quite aware he was in pursuit, though she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She did, however, pick up her skirts a bit, and hurried along at a surprisingly rapid pace. He smiled grimly.

But he was not smiling when she burst through the door of the lab and walked in as though she owned the place. He was right on her heels, by then, wondering what she would be at, marching so purposefully across the room to the opposite corner, where lay a small bookcase and a giltwood caned chair on permanent loan from Mrs. Hudson's dining room. Then she stopped, pointed dramatically at the chair, and said, "Look there. Underneath," her voice a little tremulous. Her colour had mounted again, but her chin was well up, and that spirited flash was once more in evidence.

Sherlock smoldered for a few long seconds, then deigned to look down, where she was pointing. And his brow furrowed. On the floor, under the spindle-legged chair, there appeared to be a square patch of dust, quite intact.

She said, "I preserved this sample, and swept most carefully before I mopped the rest of the floor. The sweepings are in that jar, on the shelf by the microscope. I agree that it is a worthy subject of research - I… I took the liberty of preparing a slide and examining a sample myself."

His brows rose. " _You_ _used my microscope?_ "

Her spirit faltered. "Y-yes. I've been trained in its proper use. There was no harm done, I assure you."

"I'll be the judge of that," he snapped. He turned and went to the table where the microscope was situated, noticing that there was a small black notebook lying next to it. He ignored the latter and swiftly but thoroughly examined the instrument. It did indeed appear that there had been "no harm done" - if anything, it appeared to have been cleaned. Every bit of the brass carefully polished. He sniffed, a bit put out, and next took up the notebook and opened it. The first page was covered in what he recognized as Miss Hooper's small, neat writing, and a swift overview indicated detailed notes of what she'd observed on the slide of her dust sample. Turning the page, the notes continued, and there were two quite adequate illustrations.

Annoyed, he nonetheless nodded. "You appear to have begun confirmation of my theory that there are living creatures among the more inert materials contained in house dust."

"Yes," she said, startling him, for she was standing at his side now, and somehow he hadn't heard her move, no footstep, no rustle of stiff skirts.

Hoping she hadn't seen his reaction, he turned and studied her. Not only her expression - cautious, but gratified - but the… the _symmetry_ of her face. He had to forcibly expunge the word _pretty_ from his brain, though it was surprisingly difficult.

She lowered her gaze to his cravat and said, "I am sorry to have displeased you, but I've been worried about the effects that such an accumulation of… of… well, I was worried you might become ill, if your theories proved correct. Or that _I_ might… or… or anyone." She took a deep breath and determinedly looked up. "I was hired to take care of you, as well as Mrs. Hudson. Please… try to understand."

He narrowed his eyes. "My understanding has always been considered most acute, Miss Hooper."

"Yes," she said. Her gaze dropped to the second button of his shirt.

After a moment, he said, rather resentfully, "I suppose I owe you an apology."

She looked up again quickly at that, brows raised. "Oh, no-"

"I have a temper, as you may have noticed."

She nodded. Carefully not smiling.

He could see right through her, however, and the phrase _Impertinent Baggage_ leapt to mind. "Going forward, you _will inform me_ of any plans you may have for… _cleaning_ my laboratory - or any other of my rooms, for that matter. Is _that_ understood?"

"Yes, sir," she said, very meek.

He ground his teeth a bit.

She slowly blushed a deeper pink again and cleared her throat. "M-may I go, now, sir?"

He was almost scowling, but he finally said, "It is possible that this painful incident can be turned to good purpose. As you know, Dr. Watson is no longer at leisure to assist me here on a regular basis, being obliged to put the demands of his new wife before those of his colleague and friend."

"New wife?" Her brow wrinkled. "Didn't they marry three years ago?"

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose it has been that long. One forgets. Or tries to. In any case, these notes you've made are… good. Yes. Perhaps, if your duties to Mrs. Hudson and the household allow, you would like to assist me in my lab work. The dust must be thoroughly analyzed, which will take considerable time. And I've what appears to be a murder to solve as well. I've brought back quite a number of samples from Lincolnshire that must be tested with all speed. I believe your help would expedite the process."

She could not now prevent her smile, but managed to say quite soberly, "Thank you, sir. I… I feel sure that I will be able to find the time to assist you."

He nodded. "I'm glad to hear it, Miss Hooper," he replied.

He found himself rather bemused at the truth of the sentiment.


	2. Unwelcome

**_~ Chapter 2: Unwelcome ~_**

* * *

The newly minted connection of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Miss Molly Hooper, Companion, Housekeeper, and Lab Assistant, went very well indeed, for approximately the next month.

The Hobart murder was solved within two days of Sherlock's return to town. The research into the composition of dust and the subsequent study of dust mites proceeded in a gratifyingly expeditious manner. And all the while, Miss Hooper was becoming more and more a fixture of 221B. In spite of her lack of training in the domestic arts, having been raised in moderate affluence by a mother who chose to leave the maintenance of her home to a small coterie of servants, she seemed to know instinctively how to keep an establishment running like a well oiled machine, even as she inspired a certain… tone. Cheerful, calm, with perhaps just a hint of some strange exhilaration. Though she still blushed far too often in Sherlock's presence, she seemed to have overcome her stammer for the most part, and her shy smile and warm brown eyes were a pleasant sight, whether they were seen over the dinner table with Mrs. Hudson, or over an array of neatly mounted slides, when it was just the two of them in the laboratory.

"I told you she was extremely intelligent," Watson said with a pleased smile. "And working with you will be an enormous asset to her study of medicine - if she is ever in a position to return to it."

"Of course she will return to it," Sherlock said, dismissing such doubts with a wave of his hand.

"Mmm, possibly," countered his friend. "The sale of the family home seems to have covered her father's remaining debts. But there was little beyond that, from what I understand. Certainly not enough to support her attendance at the London School of Medicine for Women. It would take her years to save enough to go back by working as a housekeeper. Or as a governess, which I believe was her original plan."

Sherlock frowned. "Her brother-in-law is a lawyer, and fairly well-off. He might give her the money, or at least loan it."

"Has he said so?" Watson asked, sounding surprised.

"No! Well, not that I know of. I've never met him."

"Ah." Watson shook his head. "Not so sure about that, then. He's not an accommodating sort of man, and if I remember correctly he was very much against Miss Hooper's attendance at the college in the first place. He'd be more likely to sponsor her come-out, from his home in Bath, to catch a husband."

"A _husband_?" Sherlock blurted in horrified accents. Then cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Watson's lips quirked in amusement, but he only said, "With her position here at an end, It might be her wisest course. Perhaps she can find some fellow willing to support her ambitions, though it seems unlikely, I must say." He shook his head sadly.

Sherlock sniffed, disgusted at the idiocy of the common man "So… Mrs. Hudson is making a smooth recovery?"

"Oh, yes!" Watson replied, brightening. "The arm seems to be healing well, and the sprained ankle is a thing of the past, though I've told her to keep it wrapped another week. It won't be long before she's able to resume her usual activities."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, and took a sip of tea.

 **o-o-o**

A few days later, Sherlock and Miss Hooper were returning to 221B after an afternoon investigating a series of thefts from a Bond Street jewelry shop -solved within five minutes (the owner's wife's parrot was the culprit, to Miss Hooper's delight), after which they'd repaired to old Gunter's in Berkeley Square for celebratory tea and ices - when Archie came running to meet them at the door, fizzing with dire portent.

"Mr. Holmes! Oh, Miss! Your brother-in-law is here. He's with Mrs. Hudson now!"

"M-my brother-in-law?" Miss Hooper sounded dismayed. Holmes looked down at her and noted her quite extreme change in expression.

"James Cavanaugh, Esquire," Archie said in solemn accents, then shrugged. "That's what it said on his card."

"Shall we join them?" Sherlock said lightly.

But Miss Hooper seemed momentarily frozen in place. "I… I…"

She looked like she would very much like to run and hide somewhere. Unfortunately, it would not do. Sherlock placed a hand at the small of her back, in what was meant as a gesture of support and comfort, and said, "Come, Miss Hooper, we must see why he has chosen to favor us with a visit."

"Y-yes." She nodded, swallowed hard and, as she regained her mobility, muttered, "Nothing for it."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured in agreement.

James Cavanaugh was sadly typical of his class and profession, a big man with a figure that spoke of desk work and Sunday Roast, and an expression that spoke of a despotic disposition. Or costiveness.

Probably both.

"Mr. Cavanaugh, is it?" Sherlock said, contriving to look down his nose at the man though Cavanaugh was taller by an inch or so. He held out his hand and smiled, a trifle sharkily. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"The _Great Consulting Detective_ , yes," said Cavanaugh, irony in his tone. He shook Sherlock's hand, briefly, then turned his eye on Miss Hooper. "Well, Molly, you're looking… actually, you look a bit worn. Job too much for you, eh? I thought it would be. Ready to give all this up and join us in Bath? Mrs. Hudson here tells me she is almost entirely healed of her injuries and you're free to go."

Molly paled still further, and stood very stiff beside Sherlock. "Yes. _No!_ I mean… I'll be needed here for some time yet." She looked at Mrs. Hudson almost pleadingly. "Mrs. Hudson and I had formulated a plan to give the house a thorough spring cleaning, now that the weather has warmed a bit. I… I am to stay and help her."

But Cavanaugh shook his head. "No, no, none of that. They've sent me to bring you home. Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Holmes can bring in a crew to do the spring cleaning, they don't need you to supervise. It's your mother who needs you, misses you like the… like anything, and she and your sister are determined you should come home, and make your bow to Bath society this spring. Lord, they've laid the groundwork already, there are a dozen fellows waiting to meet you, give you my word."

Miss Hooper looked quite horrified, and after a moment of pregnant silence, blurted, "I won't! I _can't!_ James-"

" _Molly!_ " Cavanaugh said, sharply, a threat in his tone. "You forget yourself, my girl. We-"

 _"I do not!"_ Miss Hooper's colour was rapidly returning. "I am of age, James, and you will not tell me what I may or may not do!"

Cavanaugh, apparently unaccustomed to defiance, looked almost as though he wanted to strike his sister-in-law, and Sherlock cleared his throat. The big man's attention was drawn away for only an instant, but when he again addressed Molly his anger was under more careful rein. "We need to speak of this alone, as brother to sister. Mr. Holmes- "

"We do _not!_ " Molly said, trying to control her own agitation, with very little success. "Whatever you have to say to me can be said in this room." She took a deep breath and said, firmly. "I am not leaving London, James. If my… my presence here is no longer needed, I will find another position... _somewhere_."

Sherlock felt compelled to intervene at this, and drawled mildly, "Miss Hooper is aware, I believe, that she can stay here as long as she likes. She's become quite the fixed element in Baker Street in the last two months."

Mrs. Hudson tried to add her mite, saying, "Oh, yes! We've-"

But Cavanaugh interrupted with a bark of mirthless laughter, his suddenly contemptuous gaze taking in both Sherlock and Molly. "A _fixed element_. So I gathered from what Molly has written to her sister. It was bad enough when she lowered herself to become a _housekeeper_ , but now she's your _personal lab assistant_? Lab assistant, indeed! Is that what they're calling it these days? I believe I could think of another word for it - or several, in fact."

Molly gasped, horrified, stared white-faced with fury at Cavanaugh, then sick with embarrassment at Sherlock before lifting her skirts and almost sprinting from the room and down the hall to her bedchamber.

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands, saying, "Oh! Oh, my goodness, how perfectly dreadful!" and hurried after Miss Hooper, calling after her plaintively, "Molly! Molly, dear, please let me in!"

And Sherlock, left with the now livid Cavanaugh, said, crisply, "Well, you seem to have set the seal on your relationship with your sister-in-law. Now, if you value your skin, you will leave this house immediately. Your mind is common in the worst sense of the word, the bile to which you gave vent was a pack of blatant lies, and your conduct would be abhorrent to anyone of breeding, much less to a young woman of Miss Hooper's intelligence and single-hearted good will. _And purity._ "

"Purity!" Cavanaugh snapped, not comprehending his peril. "She'll be fortunate if she's not already ruined, the little wh-"

He got no further, and two minutes later, Sherlock was slamming the front door on the creature, including his blackened eye and copiously bleeding broken nose.

After Sherlock secured the door, he turned to find Archie there, beaming at him as though he were some sort of hero.

"Mr. Holmes! That was _brilliant!_ "

Sherlock laughed shortly at the boy's uncomplicated view of the situation. "Not quite certain Mrs. Hudson will think so when she sees the state of her parlour, Archie. Come on. We'd better go put it to rights."


	3. Repercussions

**_~ Chapter 3: Repercussions ~_**

* * *

Sherlock and Archie were nearly finished putting the parlour back in order when Mrs. Hudson entered the room, along with a still-dolorous and red-eyed Miss Hooper who was clutching her dampish handkerchief.

"I'm afraid this lamp is broken," Sherlock said cheerily to Mrs. Hudson, holding up a torn shade, bowl shaped and gaudy with elaborate beading. _A good turn-up is always stimulating_ , he mused, _particularly when one's opponent is a contemptible swine and every blow well-deserved._

"I never did like that lamp," Mrs. Hudson said, stoutly, "and it appears that's the only serious damage."

"Ho! You should have seen Mr. Cavanaugh!" exclaimed Archie, then wiped the grin from his face when Sherlock gave him a swift glare.

"W-what happened to Mr. Cavanaugh?" Miss Hooper asked, but then finally found the nerve to look directly at Sherlock. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You're hurt! Your _lip!_ And y-your _hand!_ " And she was on the verge of weeping again as she came toward him.

"Why, yes, Miss Hooper," said Sherlock, acidly. He handed the lampshade to Archie with a jerk of his chin toward the door, sending the boy on his way, before fixing Molly with an accusing eye. "What the devil do you mean by having such an odious wretch for a brother-in-law? I would have thought you had more sense."

"But… _I_ didn't choose him!" she protested, half laughing, half outraged. _Not_ weeping.

"Did you tell your sister not to choose him?"

"Of course not. She fancied herself in love with him! And I was sixteen when she married, four years younger than she. What could _I_ have done?"

"Well, you might have made a push to do _something,_ " he told her, contemptuously. "But that's a female for you."

Outrage won the day, and Molly dashed a last tear from her cheek. "Oh, you horrid man! That's most unfair!"

"What's unfair is that my hand hurts like the very devil. And my lip?" He rubbed a finger over his lip and winced, detecting a swollen cut. "Would you mind practicing a little of your medical skill on me?"

She blew her nose one last time, and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket. "Come with me," she said, cooly, and led the way out and up the stairs to his rooms.

Five minutes later she was bathing his torn knuckles in a basin and looking morose again. She said, unsteadily, "Was my _odious wretch of a brother-in-law_ hurt, too?"

"Hmmm.. a bit. Broken nose. Black eye."

"Oh, dear."

"Indeed. And yet he'll live to be odious another day."

She almost smiled. She said, quietly, after a moment, "I'm _glad_ you beat him. Do you think that's very dreadful of me?"

"No," he said, baldly.

She chuckled.

Presently she took his hand from the water, dried it carefully in a soft towel, and examined it closely, frowning.

"What? It'll be fine," said Sherlock, flexing his fingers. The hand was bruised and sore, but not incapacitated in any way.

"Yes, I believe it will," she said. "But these cuts, were they from his teeth?"

"Probably."

"Then I should treat them with tincture of iodine. The human bite can be most toxic."

Sherlock shrugged. "Do your worst Miss Hooper."

She complied, with the greatest of care, wincing in sympathy as she dabbed the vilely stinging liquid over the small cuts. Then, her treatment complete, she wrapped the hand in gauze - "Just for tonight," - and neatly tied it off.

"Thank you," he said, when she was finished, though she still retained his hand, looking down at it. At last he added, "I'll be fine, Miss Hooper," and gently withdrew it from her grasp.

"I- I know you will," she said, blushing again. "But it's I who must thank you."

Sherlock smiled crookedly. "Well, I could hardly let such a reptile steal you away from me. You are far too proficient at preparing slides, for one thing. You'd be wasted in Bath."

"Yes. Yes, I would." For a moment her eyes lost their focus on him and an expression of anger passed over her countenance, like a swift-running storm - very likely recalling Cavanaugh's high handed words. But then, remembering herself, she took a deep breath and straightened. "I can stay?"

"As I said, Miss Hooper: As long as you like."

She nodded, and began to clean up. He sat and watched her as she moved about the room in that soothing way, quiet, efficient, her posture always excellent (he imagined her as a young girl, walking across the room with a book balanced on her head), the sway of her skirts - particularly from the back - quite enchanting.

Her tasks complete, she came and stood before him again, her expression serious. "Do you think there will be any repercussions from this day's work?"

"I have no idea." He stood up. It quite fascinated him that her cheek was exactly at the height of his shoulder. "If there are repercussions, we'll face them together. Agreed?"

Her brows lifted, and a little smile curved her lips. "Agreed."

"Excellent. And now, I believe Mrs. Hudson may be expecting us for dinner?" He held out his arm.

She took it, and together they went out and back down the stairs.

 **o-o-o**

The repercussions were swift in coming.

It was the following afternoon when Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, sent a carriage for him. It slid up beside him as he was walking back to Baker Street, along the edge of Regent's Park, pulled ahead of him, stopped, and a footman jumped down and opened the door. He considered refusing the summons. It wasn't as though they'd chase him through the shrubbery. But no. _Might as well get it bloody over sooner than later._

To his surprise, the carriage didn't take him to the Diogenes Club, this time. It took him to Mycroft's home in Cavendish Square, and when he walked into the familiar drawing room on the first floor he found not only Mycroft, but both his mother and father as well.

Afternoon tea was laid out, and Mother was pouring.

"How very civilized," Sherlock remarked, outwardly quite unruffled.

"So you do admit that there is such a concept?" Mycroft said, with a pretense of cheerful interest, looking over a silver tray of assorted pastries. "I wouldn't have thought it, considering the condition of your latest adversary, but there it is: even I can make a mistake."

"Doubtless only one of many," Sherlock agreed, crossing the room to the little group. He kissed his mother's cheek (she murmured, "Hello, my dear," and continued pouring), then turned to his father, who gave him a sympathetic wink as he clasped his hand. Sherlock smiled a bit, and gave the hand a squeeze, then turned back to Mycroft. "Did Cavanaugh pay you a visit?"

"Well, no. He was really in no condition to do so this morning, nor will he be yet awhile. However, I was… er… _invited_ to visit him. Ultimately, I was able to persuade him not to press charges against you. Or file a lawsuit."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "Either would have been tedious beyond permission."

"Indeed. Yet we must not be sanguine," Mycroft said, still hesitating to commit to a pastry. "You've made an enemy there, brother mine, and one who not only is familiar with the law, but is possessed of the true bourgeois mindset. Conservative to a fault. I might even say _hidebound_. And he has money. We must tread with a little care."

" _We?_ " Sherlock sniffed. "It has nothing to do with you. Any of you."

"I'm afraid that's not quite true, Sherlock," said Mother, just a little tartly, though she softened her words by handing him his cup of tea. "Coincidentally, I have had a letter from a friend of mine in Bath. It seems your… _lab assistant_ has a sister - Cavanaugh's wife, I take it - and a mother, too, and they have both of them been less than discreet."

"Oh my God," Sherlock muttered, and took a sip. _Perfect. At least something was._ "Well, what are they saying?"

"Precisely what you would expect them to say of a gently reared daughter living under the protection of a somewhat notorious bachelor and man-about-town."

Sherlock, with a great effort, did not swear, though he carefully put down the fragile teacup and saucer. "This is ridiculous! She is not _living under my protection_ , she is Mrs. Hudson's companion! And I may be notorious to some degree, and, admittedly, a bachelor, but I am not and never have been a _man-about-town!_ "

"Perhaps not, Sherlock, but neither are you a recluse," Mother said mildly. "But it seems the root of the problem is a letter Miss Hooper sent to her sister, speaking with some enthusiasm of her work as your lab assistant. I have no idea of the exact wording of the letter, and _I_ would have thought the position innocuous enough - even genteel, considering her ambition to take up the medical profession. With the presumably careful chaperonage of Martha Hudson there should be no objection. But obviously Miss Hooper's mother has formed quite a different picture of the situation."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, then strode over to the window, swearing under his breath. After a minute or so, he turned back to the trio. "What do you advise, then? I take it we are on the verge of a scandal."

"Very good!" Mycroft smiled, finally selecting an apple tart and two petit fours and placing them on a small, very beautiful china plate. "I find your use of the word 'we' most encouraging. The situation does indeed affect all of us, and if it was bad before, your informal match with the egregious Cavanaugh has made it far worse. I see only two options."

Sherlock said quickly, "I will not send her to Bath. It would be criminal to expose her further to a man of Cavanaugh's kidney."

"Certainly not. You will send her nowhere, Sherlock. She is of age, and a free woman. She has some money saved from the salary Mrs. Hudson pays her, and she'll do very well until she finds another position. I understand her original plan was to become a governess?"

Sherlock stared. The idea of Miss Hooper becoming a governess… working in a menial capacity… for someone else… perhaps leaving London altogether… "There must be some other way," he said, his voice hard.

His mother had been studying him, and smiled a little. "You might consider marrying her," she said tentatively.

But this was as shocking as the previous proposal… though in a very different sense.

When he didn't speak, Mother went on. "Her mother and sister may be fools, but the family is decent enough. Her father seems to have been some sort of cousin to the Wyndhams."

Sherlock finally found his voice. "I have never considered marriage-"

"Well, consider it now!" his mother exclaimed. "Sherlock, I do not believe this scandal can be entirely prevented, and however quickly it blows over, her reputation will be in tatters. And two confirmed bachelors in the family is one too many. I am entitled to grandchildren!"

Mycroft actually gave a bark of laughter at this, and their father said to Mother, "That will do, my dear. You'll scare the boy."

Sherlock was almost inclined to laugh, too. This was madness!

But his mother came swiftly over to him and took up his hand. "I'm sorry, dear. But please, do think about it. It seems to me that you have a fondness for the girl, and you certainly have common interests. Many a marriage has begun with far less hope than that!"

He patted his mother's hand, and spoke at last. "I will think about it. Although..." He glanced up at his bemused father, and at Mycroft, whose eyes were still brimful of laughter. "I may have another solution to the problem."


	4. Feet to the Fire

**_~ Chapter 4: Feet to the Fire ~_**

* * *

Things had seemed so hopeful that morning, Molly thought as she left behind the administrative offices of the London School of Medicine for Women. Mr. Holmes had engaged a cab to carry her both to and from the school, instructing the driver to wait however long her interview lasted, yet now that it was over, she dismissed the driver, giving him an additional few shillings and telling him, quite truthfully, that she preferred to walk. Walking would be conducive to rational thought, and give her some time in which to do it. She felt quite numb just at the moment, yet she knew that respite would be short lived and she would soon be shaken to the core with the full force of her crushing disappointment.

 _To be blunt, Miss Hooper, though you were and doubtless would be still an exemplary pupil, mere scholastic ability is only one of the qualities required for acceptance at the London School of Medicine for Women. Regrettably, the questionable nature of the situation you have chosen to adopt since your esteemed father's death does not align with the precepts obtaining at our school. We appreciate that you are ostensibly a paid housekeeper and companion to the owner of 221B Baker Street, yet evidence has come to light indicating that you fill another, less conventional role at that well-known residence. You understand that we cannot have the faintest whiff of scandal attached to those young women we accept into our programme. On a personal note, for the sake of your dear departed father, I wish I could make an exception, but it is out of the question. Regretfully, the admissions committee must at this time decline your request to be reinstated as a student._

It was as though the words were seared into her brain. She gave a little huff of laughter at the thought, though it came out rather too much like a sob. But no, none of that. She would not treat her benefactor to a display of excessive sensibility, not when he had been so good… so generous as to not only offer to loan her the funds for tuition, but enough to pay for her room and board at the school, her books… and the school was only a twenty minute walk from Baker Street, so she would have been able to visit her dear friend… dear _friends_ … when time allowed...

A moot point, now.

She would need to leave Baker Street, of course, and that soon. And it would be best to take a position in some remote part of England, where they would be unlikely ever to hear of Miss Hooper's _connection_ with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Her _affaire_. She pressed her lips together angrily, walking a little faster. Tomorrow she would go to the agency and submit her name for employment. Hopefully the scandal would die a natural death, rather than follow her from London. She wished to Heaven the rumors had more truth to them, that she had actually some breathless happiness to look back upon. But he had never seen her that way, even when her blushes and stammering had to have made it obvious to… to _anyone_ , that she was hopelessly in love with him.

Ah, how she would miss him! His passion for knowledge, his cool elegance, his arrogance. The quick wits of him - well, in most areas.

As she approached 221B, she thought she had herself well in hand. Sherlock had gone out on a case with Dr. Watson early that morning, so there was every reason to suppose only Mrs. Hudson would be at home, which was all to the good. She should have several hours in which to compose herself. But as she mounted the steps, the door opened and there he was, as though he'd just come in, still wearing his caped greatcoat and deerstalker hat.

"How did it go?" he asked with an expectant smile, but then, as he glanced quickly about, the smile disappeared. "You _walked_ back?" He studied her then, as narrowly as he would a specimen in his laboratory. "What has happened?"

She stood there, paralyzed, staring at him, trying to think of what to tell him.

"Damnation!" he muttered, finally, then stepped down and hustled her into the house by main force.

There was another man in the entry, as tall as Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson was there, too, as Sherlock closed the front door.

"This is my older brother, Mycroft," said Sherlock.

Molly tried to speak to the imposing figure, but failed, inwardly quailing under a gaze that was every bit as perspicacious as Sherlock's, and even more inhuman. Yet his voice was not unkind - "How do you do, Miss Hooper?"- and the hand that he held out and that she somehow managed to take was warm and firm.

After shaking her hand, Mycroft Holmes released it and looked to his brother. "I believe Miss Hooper would benefit from a spot of brandy, Sherlock."

"Just what I was thinking myself," Sherlock agreed, and with one hand on her arm and another at her back, she was compelled to move and enter Mrs. Hudson's parlour.

"I'm afraid I don't have any brandy," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding a bit querulous. "I'll just run upstairs and get yours, shall I?"

"If you please, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.

As she bustled out to go up to his rooms, Sherlock seated Molly in Mrs. Hudson's own easy chair, a well-cushioned, ruffled affair, upholstered in yellow splashed with cheerful red, coral, and pink roses. It was very comfortable, which was a small solace, at least, discomfited as she was in the presence of these two formidable men.

She looked up at Sherlock, and managed to utter, "I am perfectly-"

"No," he said in his abrupt way. "We will wait until until Mrs. Hudson returns."

"But I don't like brandy," she said, her voice wobbling. She bit her lip.

"Yet you must take some, for medicinal purposes." He'd taken off his hat and greatcoat, and now tossed them on Mrs. Hudson's divan. "It's very good brandy," he went on, as though conceding a point. "Mycroft gave the bottle to me on the occasion of my birthday, I believe."

"The 1855?" Mycroft asked, arching a brow. "Yes. No rough edges about it. Really, Miss Hooper, you must reserve judgement. I feel certain you will not dislike it."

She almost smiled.

Sherlock proceeded to build up the fire a little, for which Molly was grateful. Mrs. Hudson's chair was placed to benefit from the proximity of the tiled hearth, and the half-hour walk back to Baker Street had been a chilly one. She sat quietly, then, staring into the fire until presently Mrs. Hudson returned with the bottle of brandy in one hand and a small, elegant snifter of it in the other, which she immediately handed to Molly, saying, "Just take small sips, now, dear. You'll soon feel better for it."

Molly did take a sip. The libation was strong, but not harsh at all. She took a bit more, and the burgeoning warmth from the brandy within soon matched that of the fire without. She gave a little sigh, her eyes half closed for a moment.

Mrs. Hudson was now sitting on the edge of the chair opposite, looking worried, and Sherlock had pulled up one of the dining room chairs. He now sat upon it, leaned forward a bit, and said, "Now, tell us what happened at the school."

The brandy did indeed help, but though her voice was even, she could not look at them… at _him_ … as she spoke. "They said they must decline my request to be reinstated as a student. That evidence has come to light indicating that my role here is… is unacceptably spoke of... _scandal_." She bit her lip, then took another rather largish sip of brandy, and briefly found the courage to look at Mrs. Hudson, and at Sherlock. "I am much afraid my brother-in-law may have communicated with them. What other 'evidence' could there be?" And then, suddenly overwhelmed in spite of the brandy, she turned her face away and looked into the fire again, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Sherlock rose in that swift, graceful way of his, and said to his brother. "Are you coming with me?"

Molly looked quickly up, from one to the other.

Sherlock did not meet her gaze, his face set, smouldering. But Mycroft did spare her a quick glance, a very small, crooked smile touching his lips. Then he said lightly to Sherlock, "Of course I'm coming!" - but his eyes were hard.

 **o-o-o**

"Miss Hooper. _Molly… sweetheart… wake up!_ "

Oh, what a delightful dream… but then her hand seemed to be taken up, held in a much larger one, cool, with a latent strength…

And the voice - _his_ voice - spoke, again, "Wake up!", and her hand was gently patted.

She frowned… it all seemed so real… and finally she managed to lift her heavy eyelids and…

"There you are!" Mr. Holmes was saying with an uncharacteristically kindly smile.

Suddenly she was much more awake. "Oh! What time is it? I must have fallen asleep!"

"Nearly four o'clock," he said, releasing her hand and sitting up. The smile became a trifle sardonic, though, and he raised a brow, nodding toward the small table next to her, where the empty snifter stood. " _Two_ glasses of the 1855, Miss Hooper? Was that wise?"

She struggled to sit up, too, not an easy feat as deeply relaxed as she'd been, and seated in Mrs. Hudson's cloud of a chair. And memory was returning. "Wise? Oh, yes, I believe so. You were quite right about it, I do feel better, though it did put me to sleep. And I had such… such pleasant dreams." She felt a blush rising and bit her lip.

"I'm glad to hear it. But now we have some important things to discuss."

"Y-yes," said Molly. She hesitated, then said, "You don't think it can wait until morning?"

"I'm afraid not. But don't you wish to know what happened?"

"Did you and your brother go to the school?"

"Yes. We were able to speak to the admissions committee. Mycroft was good for something, at least, they all reconvened to speak to us. Probably compelled by curiosity more than anything, but no matter. Unfortunately, Mycroft's powers of persuasion proved inadequate in this case. I've rarely seen him so put out." Sherlock chuckled a bit, recalling the scene.

But Molly said, "Then… you were unsuccessful?"

Sherlock's amusement dissolved into diffidence. "I didn't say that." He seemed to hesitate, then cleared his throat a bit and plunged quickly ahead. "You will understand that, when it came down to it, there was no real choice. I had to tell them of our… er… engagement. That you are my affianced wife, though we had kept it secret since you are still in deep mourning. They agreed that this shed a very different light on the situation, and they have consented to allow you to return to the school at the beginning of the autumn term, when we will have returned from our honeymoon in Italy."

"What?!" Molly was now sitting bolt upright, clutching the arms of the chair, and goggling - she knew she was goggling, but she couldn't help it.

Sherlock eyed her. "Shall I pour you another brandy?"

"No! Mr. Holmes!" She took a couple of deep breaths. "We cannot hope to keep up such a charade! They are bound to find out it's not true, and then the situation will be worse than ever!"

"Well, obviously, Miss Hooper. Therefore, if you have no objection, we must make it true."

She stared. "Y-you mean, actually marry? You would marry me for such a reason? To facilitate my goal of becoming a doctor?"

"Well, yes-"

"A marriage of convenience?"

He gave an amused sniff. "More convenient for me than you, I expect. You may find it stressful to carry out your duties as my wife while also meeting the great demands of your school's curriculum. And should a child come along, as it very well might in the natural course of things, your scholastic progress may be somewhat delayed. Yet there is every hope that within a few years you will qualify as a medical practitioner, and, incidentally, be even better prepared to assist me in my Work."

"Mr. Holmes… I… I…"

He frowned. "Miss Hooper, you will not be so ordinary as to raise some prudish objection to the scheme? I quite thought you _wanted_ to marry me."

"I never thought of such a thing!"

His brows rose. "You mean all those blushes and stammering and sidelong glances were indicative of your desire for quite a different sort of relationship? Miss Hooper! I wouldn't have thought it of you."

She bounced up out of the chair, swaying a bit. "How dare you!"

"Such melodrama," he observed, with a roll of his eyes, and caught hold of her. Quite how it happened she could not say, but in a trice, she was seated on his lap, his arm firmly about her middle, his opposite hand taking hers in a warm clasp. "Now, do be sensible, Miss Hooper. My mother observed that our prospects are as good as any couple's, what with our common interests and… how did she put it?... my _fondness_ for you. I quite think she may have grossly underestimated the latter element, but time will tell. You must see that this is the logical outcome of the situation in which we find ourselves. I seem to have unwittingly compromised you, and we must strive to make the best of it. Now: will you consent to be my wife?"

She still could not believe this whole thing was not some dream. "Y-you… you want me? In _that_ way?"

His slow smile made her shiver. "Oh, yes, Miss Hooper," he said, and kissed her.

The next minutes seemed the culmination of a dream, or would have if Molly's every faculty were not so heightened, so _engaged_ as he proved to her, quite unequivocally, that he did indeed want her in _that way_ , yet with such heart-stopping tenderness and consideration that she could not but reciprocate with increasing fervor - he apparently did know her sentiments on this head, and she certainly had no wish to appear ordinary or prudish in his eyes. Events might have progressed in an astonishingly precipitous manner if the sound of the front door opening had not brought them suddenly to their senses.

"Oh! Who is that!" said Molly, stiffening.

"It must be Mrs. Hudson, and Archie, returning from the shops with provisions for dinner. There will be six of us - seven if I allow Archie to attend."

"Six! Who is coming?" Molly asked, dismayed.

"Mycroft is bringing my parents to meet you."

"What?!" she cried, and tried to get off his lap. "Please let me up! I can't let your parents meet me in such disorder!"

"But you look delightfully - and you have not yet replied to my proposal."

"Yes! Yes, of course I will marry you, Mr. Holmes!" she said, impatiently, and kissed him again. She meant it to be brief, merely setting the final seal on her fate, but his arms tightened fiercely about her again, and she smiled suddenly, consumed with happiness, and a certain memory… She pulled a little away and said, "Then it wasn't a dream?"

"What wasn't?"

"When you were waking me… you called me _sweetheart._ "

"No, it was certainly not a dream, Miss Hooper. You will correct me if I'm wrong - which I rarely am, as you know - but it is my understanding that the expression is almost _de rigueur_ between lovers."

 _Lovers._ Her eyes widened, her heart skipped a beat, at his tone, the way he pronounced the word. But she managed to say, "That has always been my understanding, too, Mr. Holmes," with great solemnity before kissing him, just once more.


	5. Shaken

**_~ Chapter 5: Shaken ~_**

* * *

There had been no bans, Sherlock having obtained a Special License, and the wedding was small and quiet, the guests few and select: Sherlock's brother and parents; Dr. and Mrs. Watson; Mrs. Hudson and young Archie; Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who had become a close friend of the family over the years; and Molly's mother and her sister, Philomena, who had made the journey from Bath for the event. Molly's brother-in-law, James Cavanaugh of the blackened eye and broken nose, had declined the invitation. Philomena had explained, apologetically, "He said I must on no account miss my sister's wedding, but someone must stay and take charge of the children."

"How I pity the children," Sherlock had murmured, when Mena was barely out of earshot, and his eyes had lit with amusement when Molly failed to entirely stifle a chuckle.

She had put off her blacks, which she felt was what her father would have wanted. Instead she wore a gown of pale lavender silk, a wreath of tiny white flowers adorning her upswept auburn hair beneath the matching veil. She had been unsure of the gown's color, and the style, too, which was fresh from Paris, according to the modiste she and Mary Watson had hurriedly consulted. But when she saw the way Sherlock looked at her as she walked down the aisle of the little church on Dr. Watson's arm, her mind was set at rest, and the flush of pleasure that heated her cheeks seemed only to increase his admiration.

Sherlock's brother (or, more likely, his brother's minions) had seen to it that there were bouquets of white flowers adorning the altar, and white flowers tastefully decorating the ground floor of his home as well. It was there, in Mycroft's dining room, that the wedding breakfast had been held, after photographs were taken in the big library. The repast was elegant and varied, every course paired with fine wines, and champagne served with a very beautiful wedding cake. Molly had quite failed to do justice to the feast, though she had tried to at least taste every wonderful dish, and drank more than enough wine to make up for it, what with the gentlemen vying for Best Toast of the Day. It was a convivial gathering, for all its lack of size, and with her new husband keeping her in a bubble of laughter with an ongoing series of acerbic asides meant for her ears alone, she thought she had never been so happy in her life.

By mid-afternoon the guests were replete, the last toast given, and the bridal pair retired to separate bedrooms upstairs to change into their traveling clothes. Molly's mother had grown too lachrymose with the wine to be of much assistance, so Philomena alone played the part of lady's maid and, unfortunately, advisor, telling her sister she should not expect too much joy from her wedding night. "Men are such beasts, my dear, you can as yet have no notion. Why, when James and I married I was so shocked by the whole business I wept for hours when it was over, while he snored on, fit to wake the dead. Or so I thought at the time. One becomes accustomed to such things. It wasn't long before we began to go along quite swimmingly, particularly after little Jane and then Sarah came along. And then the twins. Children are such a blessing! Such solace! So do not refine too much on the events that will inevitably unfold this evening. It will become easier to bear, I assure you, and there will be many advantages to compensate in the meantime."

Yet Mena had been entirely wrong.

Molly, who was now sitting primly beside her new husband on a bench in Waterloo Station as they waited for the train that would carry them to Portsmouth and the ship for Italy, gave Sherlock an occasional sidelong glance as she reviewed the events that _had_ unfolded the previous night. How she could ever have thought him cold… or inconsiderate... She turned her face away, aware that a blush was creeping up her neck and cheeks, and she shifted very slightly on the hard bench.

But of course he noticed.

"Mrs. Holmes, are you quite well?" he asked, taking her hand, his voice soft and low, and amused. Again.

She pressed her lips together, but then said, quietly, "You will not laugh at me!"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She gave an exasperated huff.

He had made the arrangements for the previous night himself. They'd stayed at the Savoy, the most luxurious hotel in London. Their room featured such fascinating innovations as electric lights and a marble en-suite bathroom, complete with hot and cold running water, but it was the enormous bed, that claimed Molly's immediate attention when they were shown to their room. She could not help but remember Mena's words, even though she knew Mena was a goose and Sherlock was no James Cavanaugh. Being a medical student, Molly knew a great deal more about human physiology than Mena, too. Yet it was undeniable that she was… not frightened, but a bit nervous.

Sherlock knew it. Somehow, between challenge and cajolery, she ended up sitting on his lap, again, while he explained to her exactly what he was going to do, and how, and that she had only to tell him if she disliked any of it and he would stop immediately. This conversation was oddly matter of fact, yet punctuated with kisses and cuddling, and such an undertone of fond amusement that she was soon feeling far more at ease. They began, slowly, to undress each other, and the rest was merely a natural progression.

Though _merely_ was hardly the word for it. There was nothing _mere_ about it.

"How did you know?" she demanded now, though keeping her voice down.

"Know?"

"All _that?_ What you - what _we_ did last night!" And suddenly she was afraid of his answer, even though she knew quite well he had been as profoundly affected as she.

The last time they'd made love, for example, at something like half two in the morning, had, after a drowsing, languorous beginning, ended with them both shattered entirely. God knew what the persons in the adjoining rooms must have thought! Afterward they'd lain trembling, rather stunned, twined together until they'd fallen deeply asleep, a tangle of limbs, skin to skin, so exhausted that they had not again awakened until the sun was well up, it was past eight o'clock, and they would have been late to catch their train if they had not rushed like mad things - and if the train itself had not been running a half hour behind schedule, resulting in the current chance for reflection on a topic that was singularly inappropriate in such a public venue.

And that had only been the _last_ time.

She clutched his hand, remembering the first. How she had cried out as much in pleasure as in pain when he had finally penetrated her, slick and sure, careful, and it _had_ hurt, but he had prepared her so well that she had _reveled_ in it, both shocked and filled with joy that such a thing was possible, and reveled, too, in the way his control slipped away and he was steadily reduced to incoherence, exactly as she had been not once but twice in the previous hour.

She swallowed hard, remembering. Remembering.

Sherlock drew her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed her fingers, his eyes alight. Then he said, "Mrs. Holmes, you know my methods. This was a question of such importance to us both I dared not leave it to chance. Research was needed. Experts were consulted."

She frowned. "Experts?"

"Have you heard of Madame Celeste's of Bennet Street, off St. James's?"

"No."

"Well, not surprising. It is a house of prostitution, a very exclusive one, and Celeste is the proprietress. She and her girls owed me a favor."

Molly's mouth dropped open and she felt the blood drain from her face.

Sherlock looked a little alarmed. " _Research_ , not experience. I asked them questions, and they were most instructive in their replies. They sent their best wishes to you, by the way. And that helpful vial of scented oil."

Molly was much relieved at this reply, yet could not help continuing to frown up at the outrageous man she had married. "Research. They told you how to do all those things you did… we did… _you_ did, last night?"

"They told me how to make your first experience a pleasurable one. I had no desire to hurt you."

"Y-you did, though."

"I know." He kissed her fingers once more.

After a slight pause, she said, "I can hardly wait for you to do it again."

His expression became smug. Speculative. Mischievous. "Patience, sweetheart."

She sighed, and for a minute or two they sat quietly, holding hands, waiting for their train, watching other, less fortunate people walk to and fro. But presently Molly said, "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Holmes?"

"When we return to London, I quite think I would like to meet Madame Celeste and her girls, to thank them. And perhaps conduct some research of my own." She looked up at him, with a pretense of innocence. "Do you think you would be able to arrange it?"

Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback at first, but she could almost see the wheels turning as he considered the implications, the possible results of such a visit, and of such research. "Something might be arranged, yes, though you would certainly have to go in disguise. We've only now completely restored your reputation with your school, it wouldn't do to be found out. You might dress as a man. Perhaps with a false mustache." He reached up and touched her cheek, very lightly, with the back of one knuckle. "You have an exceedingly feminine countenance."

He wanted to kiss her, she could see it in his eyes. "Do you know," she said, squeezing his hand, "I quite think I am going to enjoy being your wife very much indeed."

"It is certainly my intention to ensure that you do," he replied. But then he suddenly looked up. "And now, I believe our train is finally coming into the station." He rose to his feet, pulling her up beside him. "We should board with all haste. I was able to engage a private compartment for us when I purchased the tickets."

"An indulgence indeed on such a short journey, but your foresight was admirable," she said, smiling. "But may we not have breakfast, too, Mr. Holmes? You will recall that we arose so late this morning that we missed it entirely at the Savoy. I find I am quite famished."

"The _transport_ does, indeed, require fuel," he murmured with a sigh of impatience. "Very well, Mrs. Holmes, it shall be as you wish. I expect there will be sufficient time to satisfy both our appetites."

~.~


End file.
